


Early Mornings

by wind girl (amixxhan)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist!Grantaire, Implied Self-Deprecation, Implied drinking, Law Student!Enjolras, M/M, Swearing, also mentions of Combeferre/Courfeyrac, cute dorks being dorks, heads up its in 2nd person, just a bit, sex-repulsed enjolras i guess, that's basically it idk, yea experimental a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amixxhan/pseuds/wind%20girl
Summary: You wake up in someone else's bed (which was much comfortable than yours, that was certain). Not an unusual event, really. The French flag was hung on stark white walls directly across you, a corkboard full of familiar posters and newspaper clippings.Grantaire wakes up in Enjolras' bed. They banter.





	

You have a headache. That was certain.

 

You wake up in someone else's bed (which was much comfortable than yours, that was certain). Not an unusual event, really. The French flag was hung on stark white walls directly across you, a corkboard full of familiar posters and newspaper clippings.

 

There had been a meeting yesterday— at the Musain. Did 'Ferre and Courf redecorate (They’re usually the ones you crash for a night or two when you’re drunk as shit and can’t go home properly)? Perhaps they did.

 

You turn to your right to find your boyfriend Enjolras sleeping beside you. His blonde hair was unkempt and messy. One bleary blue eye opened, directed at you. Hand on your arm. "Please, stay 'Taire," he asked, voice—softer and less severe than usual.

 

You are frozen. You lay there, limbs refusing to move at all.  You turn to him.

 

"Apollo—" you say, only to be cut off.

 

"I'm not Apollo; I’m not some Greek god whose feet you should kiss and smother with love. I’m just Enjolras. I'm human R, you know that, why put me on a fucking pedestal?" he asks. His grip tightens on your arm. "Stay with me a little longer, 'Taire. ’Ferre and Courf won't be back until tomorrow to pick you up."

 

“Can’t answer that,” you admit to him, you feel his head shake in disapproval. “It suits you. You like a marble statue for god’s sake.”

 

“You and me, we’re mortal,” he replies.

 

You hate to admit it, but Enjolras was right— Enjolras, he was just a man. He wasn't a god, he had limitations. But to you, Enjolras might as well be. Apollo. He was Apollo, radiant, powerful, enlightening, blue fire in those bright and electric eyes of his. To you, he might as well be Apollo.

 

Capable of being completely terrible, given the chance, that’s him. You've seen that side of Enjolras once, only once (Montparnasse didn't dare touch any member of _Les Amis_ _l'ABC_ afterwards).

 

You don't want to see that side again.

 

He shifts a bit. His head on the crook of your neck, arms now on your waist. "You smell like shit," he mutters. "Can't tell if you're not taking care of yourself or that's the paint thinner or the linseed oil or worst case scenario, _all three_."

 

You don’t have the heart to argue with him at this hour —and Apollo— _Enjolras_ , was warm. A comforting presence right beside you. Something familiar.

 

"A bit of both I guess," you reply. "Sorry 'bout that. What happened last night?" You ask, as you hold his hand. You try to adjust without disturbing him.

 

The blonde sighed. "You got piss drunk." He tucks a stray dark hair behind your ear. “Started to babble— a lot. Something about the June Revolution? The 1832 one, not the French.”

 

"Nothing new there." You raised an eyebrow. He starts to blush, pale skin now almost pinkish in the sunlight.

 

“And you asked me to quote on quote ‘fuck you’.”A chuckle from Enjolras. You can feel blush forming on your cheeks: you’re probably redder than a pomegranate now. “If you’re still up for it, I’m fine with that. But you know me and sex—”

 

It was true, Enjolras never had _liked_ sex, not that he didn’t enjoy doing it— but he saw it as a waste of time and energy, perhaps alcohol and gambling fit into that category as well. But he did do it every once in a while, never excessively.

 

You wonder what he saw in you.

 

“Enj— you don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know that.”

 

“It’s fine ‘Taire. Besides, I _think_ you can use the exercise.”

 

“H-hey! I ‘exercise’ more than you Mister! Have you even _tried_ fencing and boxing twice a week? And you shouldn’t force yourself to like sex it’s just—”

 

“Like I said, you babble. I can’t bear to leave you alone, nothing happened last night, if that’s what you’ve been worrying about. You passed out as soon as you hit the bed. Had to poke you around to get you moving a bit.”

 

You’re definitely not the guest bedroom then. Explains the French flag almost venerated in front of you (No seriously, it was even _framed,_ for Christ’s sake!). “You’re comfy though, big ass teddy bear and heater in one.”

 

“Ah, _shit_. I’ll make it up to you Enjolras, swear to god,” you say, hands on his waist now, just below the hem of his white shirt. You almost think he _giggles_ when you run your fingers up his navel. He visibly trembles as well. There was a weak kick to your left foot.

 

“Cuddle me?”

 

“Would love that.”

 

He slides closer now, your bodies touching, you feel heat radiating from him. His head is on your paint-stained chest, hands dangling from your waist. He’s _alive_. _You’re_ alive. He’s not going anywhere soon enough, its Sunday so both of you don’t have classes this morning. The _Les Amis_ meeting is a few hours later at the minimum— needless to say, you have time.

 

“I love you, you asshole.” One chaste kiss to your lips. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Also, _stop that_.” He holds your right hand tightly, preventing it from moving, “it _tickles_.”

 

“Who says I do?” you reply. You lean in again, enough to make your noses touch at the tips. “Good morning sweetheart. I love you too _mon ange_.” Another peck.

“Correction, you’re a _corny_ asshole. _And_ you still smell like shit and there’s paint on your chest _and_ your hands. Jesus, do you even _know_ how to clean yourself up?”

 

“I thought we were having a moment.” You pout at him. He laughs and fake-punches your shoulder. “ _Another_ correction, I’m _your_ corny asshole.”

 

“That seems about right. Wanna shower?” his eyes light up at you, the blue of his eyes seemed even brighter (if that was even possible).

 

“You fucking bet. Last to the shower is a rotten egg!”

**Author's Note:**

> basically i love these dorks ok. might change the title. i really do need to research more on them.


End file.
